


in soviet russia, landmine disarm you

by blueincandescence



Series: all's fair in love and cold war [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Illya is nonsense and Gaby is having none of it, Mission Fic, Prompt Fill, U.N.C.L.E. gets an HR department, it's that kind of fic, no apologies for the title, on Soviet soil, prompt 1: gaby saves illya's life, prompt 2: gaby and illya ignore/annoy each other on purpose, prompt 3: illya accidentally walks in on gaby in the shower, prompt 4: illya fights jerks because they are jerks to gaby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-14 19:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8026561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueincandescence/pseuds/blueincandescence
Summary: A mission that takes Illya and Gaby through a literal minefield forces them to deal with the metaphorical minefield their fledging relationship has become.





	1. definitely against code

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve teamed up with the awesome ladies of [imaginegallya](http://imaginegallya.tumblr.com) over on tumblr! The following was inspired by four prompts, one for each chapter. Big thanks to my shiny new beta dearxalchemist!
> 
> Aesthetic for the fic is [here](http://blueincandescence.tumblr.com/post/150343327195/gallya-aesthetic-landmines-aesthetic-for-my-fic).
> 
> All my graphics, vids, and mixes for gallya are [here](http://blueincandescence.tumblr.com/search/otp%3A-i-need-a-partner+bluemade) and for TMFU are [here](http://blueincandescence.tumblr.com/search/rather-a-good-queue+bluemade).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: [anonymous]** Oh! I’d love to read one about Gaby saving Illya ;D Maybe something really awkward and sticky. ;)  
>  **Warnings:** You can’t evoke mines in a title without blowing some stuff up. Warning for excessive but only mildly graphic cruelty to nameless mooks and blameless poultry.

THE CAUCASUS, 15 APRIL 1964

Illya does feel a twinge of guilt for advocating to Waverly that Gaby should be left behind in Yerevan.

In his defense, he acknowledges her singular work up to the point of departure from the city. They have the coordinates of a military installation that should not exist. They have a rough idea of how to avoid the newly laid mines that surround it. They have solid evidence that the backers of this plot for regional destabilization also funded the misguided youth revolt they thwarted six weeks ago in Belgrade. All of this highly valuable intelligence is thanks to Gaby’s uncanny ability to lull a mark into a state of complacency so profound that the cognitive dissidence when she twists the proverbial knife makes interrogation almost dull.

So he argues that Gaby has done plenty. That she deserves a beach vacation, not a three-day hike across the Lesser Caucasus Mountains with nothing to look forward to but a gun battle. As agent-in-command for this particular mission, Illya believes he should have a say in personnel. Waverly does not disagree; instead, he asks if they shouldn't call Gaby into the room so Illya can be the one to explain his generous idea to her.

Illya lets the subject drop there. Contrary to Gaby's accusations, he is not reckless with his life.

Gaby finds out about it anyway. He can tell by the cheerful way she loads her nine-millimeter, the nozzle haphazardly pointed in his direction. She has made no secret of her desire to shoot him ever since he signed the UNCLE Code of Conduct, fresh from the printer, two weeks ago in London. This new round of Illya-attempts-to-protect, Gaby-takes-violent-offence is heightened by the fact that, in the mountains, she doesn’t have to worry about witnesses.

Solo, no doubt the source of the leak, has earned her confidence. He delights in picking sides. No matter whose he has chosen, Illya is somehow always the one who loses out.

In the early morning, the three of them and their supplies ramble to the Azerbaijan border on the back of a truck. They’re stacked not unlike the hay bales concealing them. One of Gaby’s elbows is attempting to pry a space between Illya’s lower ribs. The discomfort distracts him from the warm weight of her thigh pressed to his own and her silken hair tickling his neck the way the pain of a broken finger might distract from an amputated leg. Limiting contact has been a challenge already. Faced with the prospect of three days, three nights of avoiding landmines, he has no choice but to elbow back. Bark orders, ignore glares.

Night one, Gaby huddles close to the fire Illya built. Beside Solo, she listens with wry amusement to his chronicle of how becoming a soldier, as he puts it, transformed the son of a janitor into the man of the world she sees before her.

Illya sits on a stump as far from the posturing as possible while still maintaining enough light to memorize tomorrow’s route. He is engrossed when a pebble whips a hole through his map, launching him to his feet.

“Now, now,” Gaby chides, armed with a bigger pebble. Her wrist is cocked back for a second throw. “Aggressive behavior towards one’s fellow agents is against the Code.”

Folding his map noisily, Illya sits back down. He wishes he didn’t sound so petulant replying, “And flinging rocks is what?”

Teeth flashing in the firelight Gaby retorts, “I never signed the verdammt Code, you’ll recall. Yet here I am. No one’s packed me off to East Berlin.” Her eyes narrow like a scope. Knowing her aim and her temper she is capable of putting a scar on his other temple.

Solo takes hold of her wrist and elbow, gentling her down. It is a meaningless gesture that Illya has relinquished the right to take exception to.

“Gaby was merely attempting to gain your attention on my behalf, Peril. I’d asked you a question about your military service.”

“Three years Special Forces. Classified.”

“And the year before that you were an enlisted man in the Red Army, somewhat like the enlisted men who are plotting to commandeer the base we are on our way to infiltrate.” He waits in vain for Illya to jump in before prompting, “Insights? Anecdotes?”

“It was cold.” He opens the map again signaling the end of the discussion.

“I’m sure you felt right at home,” Gaby tosses out, huddling further into the wool blanket he packed for her.

“Peril’s just being modest.” Solo stokes the flames with the walking stick he has taken to overusing. “His was quite the meteoric rise. ‘A textbook example of the ideal Communist soldier,’ I believe the file put it. And something about holding others to the same high standard.”

Gaby huffs. “So you informed on anyone and everyone until you got your promotion. The ideal Communist.”

The map crinkles in Illya’s fists. “Soldiers who do not hold other soldiers accountable for their actions are the reason you dislike Communists.” He cocks his head at Solo. “You just refuse to admit corruption is not only Red Army phenomenon.”

Gathering the blanket to stand, Gaby says, “It would take me from here to the Caspian Sea to list all the ways I hate Communists.” By the end of her pronouncement, the bluster has gone from her voice, replaced by fatigue. Illya set a grueling pace today. She did well.

He watches her to her small tent, muttering when she is out of earshot, “Blatant political bias. Definitely against Code.”

Solo sighs. Things have been tougher for them both of late. Their respective organizations have demanded more legally binding leashes — and Waverly has been all too pleased to build another bureaucratic layer between UNCLE and anyone who would dismantle it.

“Sanders made you sign, too,” Illya grumbles to Solo. “You aren’t her enemy.”

“I’d imagine it’s not the same,” is their partner’s mild reply.

Illya’s shoulders threaten to slump. He is not immune to fatigue nor ironic accusations of betrayal.

“It’s a delicate situation, Peril.” Solo pats his own knees. “If you insist on taking the hard stance on absolutely everything — ” He gets up, holding together the sides of his parka the way he would a bespoke suit. “Something or other is bound to break.”

Alone by the fire, Illya listens to Gaby’s faint rustle. She is tossing and turning, probably cursing him as a lullaby. It is well into the night before he can admit to himself that he is the other in Solo’s warning, the something bound to break.

By night two, they have lost most of their supplies to the Kamarli River, a stunning example of their spectacular ability to work toward failure as a team. Frosty early spring rains drive them to seek shelter from a contact of a contact — an Azerbaijani of Armenian descent whose son-in-law is among the band of alleged conspirators.

All three of them accept the elderly shepherd’s invitation to stay in his barn. Only two of them sleep there. The shepherd’s daughter has made an invitation of her own, and Solo has no compunctions about lying with a woman one night and possibly widowing her the next. In his corner of the drafty barn loft, Illya scowls into damp wooden boards.

The Code takes no exception to the kind of dalliances Solo engages in with compulsive regularity. Only dedicates pages on pages to rules and regulations governing ‘complex entanglements.’ Page thirty-seven, paragraph two: ‘The formation of intimate relationships between agents of UNCLE, whether employed on a permanent or contractual basis, is strictly prohibited. Punitive measures are left to the discretion of commanding officers. Serious infractions may be grounds for immediate dismissal.’ Thirty-eight words that span the harsh distance between his prone form and Gaby’s.

He listens to her lying awake and shivering but does not allow himself to budge one centimeter closer. The rain falls heavier. A steady leak is the accompaniment to Gaby’s aggravated breaths. Illya can see his own coming out in a thin cloud. He has plenty of time to steel himself nonresponsive as loud as Gaby is dragging her blanket over to his corner. She throws the blanket over him and crowds in to find his heat, her small back curving along his own.

They are tangled by the time a rooster crows. Pinned beneath her, Illya breathes Gaby in at the juncture of her throat and wants desperately to hang on to the excuse of sleep. But his mind is too disciplined. He unwraps their legs, intertwined ankle to thigh. He unwinds her arms from his neck, her resistance strong for someone so seemingly deep in sleep.

Illya, soaked to the bone, huddles beside a tree trying to piss through a tenacious erection. Solo, who spent the night easy and sated, comes whistling down the path from the farmhouse. He ushers Gaby under his umbrella to escort her to breakfast.

The dreamy-eyed shepherdess serves them scrambled eggs swimming in an orange-colored oil. Illya takes Gaby to task over the jam she drips onto the map. She argues against his chosen route. Hard to say who between them is the bigger pretender.

The minefield picks up again a kilometer from the village. Its perimeter is simple enough to check against their intelligence as the disturbed ground is muddied and puddled. The outer edge brings them closer to a inhabited area than any landmines they've verified so far. An area that the shepherd told them is almost entirely populated by ethnic Armenians.

Solo takes the task of warning endangered houses, leaving Illya to shoo a flock of free-range chickens away from the hill. Gaby stands at the top issuing unhelpful orders. To her delight, Illya is wrestling a particularly biting hen, which he has, in his mind, christened Gabriella. He finally has it in the crook of his arm when a rifle shot rings out.

Gaby tumbles backward down the steep incline without a sound.

Illya races to her, zigzagging to avoid the marksman. A pistol shot courtesy of Solo takes care of that concern, but two more soldiers charge the hill behind Illya. They appear to be weaponless, evidently more surprised to see foreigners than the foreigners are to be noticed. Illya ignores them and the hen squawking in his grip, singularly focused on getting to Gaby.

Miraculously she hasn’t been shot. She is mounting the slippery hill. Her attention behind him, she screams his name in warning.

Illya tussles with the two soldiers, throwing the weight of his frustration into the fistfight. Every blow exchanged slides them further down the slope. Illya grabs one of them by the collar and punches him rapidly in the face to disorient him. He then demands to know who ordered them to lay the mines. The admission of guilt in the soldier’s reply — _'I will never talk!' —_ makes it simple for Illya to render him unconscious in a way that risks permanence.

The other soldier slams into Illya and together they roll onto flat grass. They both freeze. Gaby at the foot of the hill and Solo at the top freeze with them. Illya is reminded of the time he stared Gaby and Solo down over a minefield in East Berlin. Where there was once grim triumph there is now open-mouthed concern.

The hen squawks, breaking the moment. Gaby grabs a hold of it before it can run onto the field and trigger a mine. Illya gets to his feet ever so cautiously, holding out a hand toward the soldier and demanding wordlessly that he not do anything stupid. But the soldier has his eyes on his immobile comrade; rage compels him to launch himself at Illya.

“Chicken!”

Illya ducks right in time to miss taking a kilo of wet, angry hen to the face. The soldier is beaten back by wings, talons, and beak. Gaby surges forward to haul Illya up. They make it just one solid stride up the hill before Illya throws himself on top of Gaby at the sound of a triggered mine. The explosion comes a split-second later, raining heat and slickness onto the back of Illya’s neck. He tries to force down Gaby’s arms, but they are wound protectively over his head.

In the tinny, blurry aftermath, Illya helps Gaby to her feet so they can check each other over for damage. Where they are sticky with blood splatter and mud, ash and feathers cling to their hair, skin, and clothes.

Gaby reaches up to pluck a feather from Illya’s cheek. He watches her lips form the words: “Still wish you’d left me in Yerevan?” She blows away an errant feather that the rain has washed over her face before returning her features to a haughty glower. Agent Gaby Teller. Saving his life with a chicken one minute, raring to fight him in a minefield the next. He is grateful she's here with him, even if it’s all he can do not to kiss her. He settles for offering his arm. Eyes still narrowed, she permits him to lead her up the hill.

At the top they find Solo tipped flat on his back, arms cradling his stomach. He mimics the explosion with his hands then twirls his fingers to indicate the feathers floating down. His favorite part, apparently. Illya hears little above the sound of his own ringing ears, but by the look of it Solo’s laughter will carry several villages over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical accuracy disclaimer: While there are mines along the border between Azerbaijan and Armenia, I have no idea if/where they existed in the 60s. The base is fictional as is, of course, the plot. The tension between Azerbaijan and Armenia, with Russia playing them against each other, is real and has created a lasting legacy of violence between the two countries. But intermarriages along the border region were, at one point, common.
> 
> Oh, and I headcanon the boys trading agent-in-command roles based on whose turf they’re on, explaining why Illya kinda has the lead here (although let's be real Gaby usually ends up calling the shots).


	2. goodnight, little chop shop boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: [steamy-lungs]** Oh my lordy lord, I love your blog so much  <3 It definitely gives the ship justice. Prompt: Gaby or Illya ignoring the other just to annoy them. Thank you!  
> 

THE CAUCASUS, 18 APRIL 1964

The truce Gaby has won between them lasts only a matter of hours. Forgetting who has saved whose life on this mission, Illya expects her to stay in the woods outside the covert military installation to coordinate with Waverly via radio.

“Shall I knit you something while I wait by the phone?” she asks through her teeth.

“It is essential function,” Illya says, standing back from the tarp to take inventory of their remaining supplies and the weapons they confiscated the last village back.

“Then you do it,” she spits with more vitriol than strictly necessary. Illya is dressed in the uniform of a Red Army officer, knee-high black boots and all. She wants to tear the uniform off of him — somewhat out of patriotism but more so out of a strong and perverse attraction. It’s upsetting.

What’s more upsetting is that whenever Illya turns Solo is there to catch Gaby looking.

She picks up the matching uniform hat to give herself something else to focus on. “Why don’t I get a uniform?” The hat is much too big for her; her attempt to hide her hair beneath it results in it sliding toward the mud.

In one fluid motion, Illya catches the hat by the brim and fits it snugly on his blond head. The hard curve and red stripe do sinful things to his jawline. “Moscow would never send woman soldier to Azerbaijan where forces refuse them.” The tone here is primary school teacher, as if Gaby hasn’t spent her whole life negotiating that line of refusal. Illya’s chest puffs a little. “This is not how it is at home. Women have right to fight if they so choose.”

Gaby so chooses.

Not immediately. She is a professional and, for all her complaining, it is essential that Waverly have the coordinates they verified to be able to lead the UNCLE Secondary Unit and Azerbaijani troops around the minefield. Trouble comes in three parts. First, the break in the storm doesn’t hold long, making nighttime off-roading a dangerous endeavor even without the threat of explosion. Second, while Illya and Solo apart may have once perhaps been shrewd agents, left alone they will do things like attempt the takeover of an entire military base planned reinforcements be damned. Third, Gaby gets caught.

The gunfire and explosions happening within the walls of the base are not quite as loud as the crackle of the radio, sending two soldiers rushing to her makeshift tent. The darkness is inky with rain, but their flashlights find her. Gaby plays the hysterical woman card until they give her the opportunity for a reversal. A shot to the thigh takes down the big one, and she compels the teenager to tie him to a tree.

Over the barrel of her nine-millimeter, Gaby considers the soldier’s small and narrow frame. “Razden'!” she commands.

The teenage soldier shakes his head less in defiance, more in abject horror. She shoots the ground next to his ideally-sized feet. Thirty seconds later, he’s making a mad dash away from her in nothing but his wash-worn underclothes.

Subsumed as she is in the thick, drenched Soviet military fatigues, it’s quick work falling in line with the soldiers who are taking cover along the primary walls of the base. Napoleon is seated high inside a rotating machine gun mount, trading fire with troops on both sides of the wall. He’s putting up a good fight, but if the soldiers on this side ever get the rocket launcher in place at the very least his new toy will be toast.

Gaby casts her eyes about and spots inspiration half-covered under a canvas tarp. She can’t resist. One reckless turn does deserve another.

She manages the twenty yards without being shot down by her partner and clambers up the side of the tank. Her initiative inspires followers, so she has to race to lock the commander hatch up tight against the confused soldiers.

It takes no time at all to get familiar with the controls. On a schoolyard dare, Gaby snuck inside a Stasi tank. Just to look; she didn’t have a death wish. But she could have driven the thing even then. Handlebar, throttle, gearshift, brake pedal — all of it exactly in her wheelhouse. Getting the tank into position is nothing. Lining the gun barrel up to blast the doors takes a bit more ingenuity.

Gaby crashes right through the steel-enforced secondary gate. It’s everything she has dreamed of and more.

The viewport doesn’t offer much in the way of vision, but she can’t miss Solo dropping off the collapsing wall and landing only a few yards in front of the tank. Tanks don’t swerve, but the few centimeters to the left she manages are enough for Solo to dive right and clear the track.

From there Gaby sets herself up nicely in the center of the training yard and cuts loose on the main building. Once the soldiers realize whose side the tank is on, guns fall to the ground and hands shoot up. Her powers of persuasion, Illya and Solo will both live to testify, are at their peak when backed up by sixty-two metric tons of petrol-fueled firepower.

Illya approaches the tank, scowl drawn tight as it always is when he is at a loss for intelligence. Gaby sticks her head and shoulders out of the hatch. She thinks she sees pride shine from his eyes and is warmed by it. But it's a mirage.

Annoyance settles on his countenance. “What happened to backup?” Illya sounds like he is actually fighting to suppress the admonishment he no doubt wants to deliver, ignored orders offending him to the marrow as they do.

Gaby indicates herself grandly. “You’re looking at her.”

She doesn’t expect a ticker tape parade, but Illya just gives her a purse-lipped nod before turning back to round up what should be acknowledged as her prisoners. Solo at least sends her an impressed salute.

Maybe it’s puerile, but the battle is over, thanks to her; so she engages in some light insubordination. Moving the tank to the right instead of the left. Passing Illya, who is ladened down with rifles, to ask Solo if he’d like assistance with one of the two he carries. Taking the task of supplying the imprisoned survivors with first aid and water after Illya told her to steer clear.

While Illya in the moment takes it all with remarkable equanimity, just the thought of him tattling on her to Waverly makes her redouble her efforts to annoy him. Waverly she can deal with. Given the slapdash way they’ve gotten used to operating since Rome, the whole concept of instituting an agent-in-command is almost farcical anyway. UNCLE is supposed to be the anti-KGB, the anti-CIA. That’s what she was promised and why Waverly can’t expect her to sign away her freedom to some autocratic Code of Conduct.

Waverly and the cavalry finally make it the long way around the minefield an hour later. Between the wind, the rain, and the crumbling infrastructure, the three agents from UNCLE are a muddy, sooty, bloody sight to behold.

Gaby, stomping around gracelessly in her stolen jackboots, uses a flare to direct Waverly’s jeep through the half-destroyed gate. Several more military vehicles follow, carrying Waverly’s usual UNCLE entourage, General Humbetov, and a dozen or so troops from the Fourth Soviet Army out of Ganja.

Illya and Solo, armed with submachine guns, march the survivors of the would-be insurgency out of the small base.

Dr. Rees approaches Gaby as soon as he steps out of a jeep. It’s a habit he has adopted after having his chivalry called into question on one too many occasions by an always growling, sometimes half-dead Russian. Gaby waves the doctor away first because she is fine and foremost for the sheer annoyance that crosses Illya’s face when Dr. Rees explains her refusal.

Pretending not to hear the order of, “Come, see doctor,” barked across the training yard, Gaby catches Waverly up on the relevant intel from the three days they have been off comms. Relevant means skipping all the times she was driven out of her mind enough to almost wish for a certain boot to trip a landmine. By the time she is finished, she and Waverly have come to stand near enough for Illya to level a frown at her and for Gaby to very obviously ignore him.

The survivors are a rag-tag bunch. Were they not planning to instigate a war between Azerbaijan and Armenia by way of civilian casualties — and were Solo not failing to conceal what must be a painful limp for which Gaby feels a smidgen responsible — she might be tempted to dredge up some sympathy.

As it is, she hands the flare over to General Humbetov so that he may glare into the eyes of the soldiers who betrayed him. Of his scorching tirade, she only catches simple nouns and snatches of profanity. Gaby still has enough Russian and know-how to understand that a firing squad is their best and brightest hope for the future. One exacting motion and the General’s loyal men converge to take his prisoners away.

General Humbatov exchanges words of thanks while shaking hands with Waverly, Solo, and Illya. Gaby expects to be ignored, as she so often is when it comes down to the action heroics. It is a touching change of pace when the General, a Soviet and a Muslim, holds out his hand for her, an East German defector and a woman out of place, to shake.

Shifting to stand beside her, Illya starts more than she does when the General follows that surprise by rapping his hand on her muddy cheek and briefly cupping her chin. Her Russian has progressed enough in the past several months that his heavily accented pronouncement, _'Fine work, son,'_ loosely translated, rings loud and clear.

A second pat on the back jars the dual-folded uniform cap her hair is pinned into, but Illya rights it before the General takes notice. Evidently, he feels General Humbetov has suffered enough shocks what with the insurrection and the destruction of his state-of-the-art military installation.

Gaby feels less strongly about it. In her lowest register, she replies, “Spasibo, ser.” Even that fails to break what she previously flattered herself to be a flimsy illusion.

No less amazing is the fact that everyone — even Solo, who looks like he has found the cure for all that ails him — is able to reign in their commentary until the General has left the base to UNCLE for investigation, per their agreement.

Waverly is the first to get a word in. Eyeing Gaby up and down, he murmurs, “Remarkable,” and tells them they will have their debrief at 0600 hours.

Solo snickers and, honestly, she expected more. Illya’s soft snort is what rankles.

“I don’t find it remarkable,” Gaby says, frown on Waverly’s back as the three of them follow their supervisor into the base. “We know the General has poor eyesight — he missed a coup forming right under his nose.” Her hands slip from their perch on her hips. The fault of the uniform, not an indicator of any excessive boyishness.

Solo, now milking that limp, stops her short under a hanging light so he can circle her.

Gaby stands her ground with her arms folded across her admittedly small chest. She was once accustomed to being addressed as a man with her coverall-clad legs sticking out from under an engine. And she once lived for that moment of shock when she slid out to reveal her very feminine, very unimpressed features. These days Gaby is more often haute couture and femme fatale. It’s nice for a change to have gone into battle appropriately attired.

Straightening to gain as much height as she can manage, Gaby says, “I think I make a rather dashing soldier.”

She glances up out of the corner of her makeup-free eye, catching Illya’s sudden decision to engross himself in cleaning off the scope of his gun. So typical of the last two weeks. He has plenty to say when it’s orders on top of orders but nothing to contribute in the way of actual conversation.

“No arguments here, Private Teller.” Solo throws a lewd look over her head. “Imagine the chaos in the barracks.”

Illya tuts in disapproval, still not looking.

Solo raps her cheek, wiping the mud on her shoulder. _'Fine work, son,'_ he mimics in Russian. He winces. “Now, I’m off to find the largest bottle and the softest bunk this fine establishment has to offer.”

“For — ” Illya checks his watch. “Two hours and forty-two minutes. Don’t be late.”

“I thank you for the sympathy. It’s funny,” Solo says, turning to limp down the corridor like a sailor with a peg leg. “I feel almost exactly as if I’ve been run over by a tank.”

“Almost,” Gaby argues. “Almost run over by a tank.” Dr. Rees hadn’t even thought the injury severe enough to wrap. Throwing her voice, she adds, “And you’re welcome for your life.”

Rounding the corner, he shoots off another salute.

Gaby confronts Illya the instant they are alone, seizing what has become a rare occurrence. Indicating her garb, she fishes, “I suppose you have several opinions you’re dying to share, Comrade Fashionista.” She can work with criticism at this point. Any personal interaction from him will do.

Illya spares her an unreadable look. She knows how his three-day beard will prickle underneath her palms. She is forced to ball them into fists at her side because a single dress-down from Waverly has gotten the reputed Russian superagent spooked.

“No,” Illya enunciates and slips the gun from her thigh holster. He leaves with the promise of cleaning it for her.

How fortunate she is to have such a kind and considerate colleague. “Schlappschwanz,” she mutters.

His shoulders, broadened impossibly by a uniform, stiffen. Inhuman hearing was apparently one of his upgrades. She thinks he will rise above her insult, as he has risen above each of her insults from the minute they started attacking each other’s nerves in Yerevan.

So it is almost an achievement when he breaks with professionalism to growl, “Goodnight, little chop shop boy,” before stalking off in a huff.

Her hand goes reflexively to her dirty face. She doesn’t suppose she makes a very strong argument for insubordination looking and no doubt smelling as she does. It was not so very long ago that the smallest tortured glance from underneath sweeping blond lashes made her feel irresistible.

Her own fault, any member of her former ballet company might have advised her. When she took up with her instructor all those years ago, Gaby had been familiar with the notion that Berlin Ballet girls who stop playing hard to get don’t dance for long. Evidence to the contrary, she never could wrap her head around the notion that the axiom applied to her.

Gaby stomps down the corridor Solo took. Bottle first, then shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: Schlappschwanz, as Google tells me, essentially means weak. But it literally translates to “limp dick,” so it seems like the equivalent of Gaby calling Illya a pussy. In more shippery translations, razden' (pаздень) translates to ‘undress’ — one guess where she picked up that command…


	3. jilted one minute, worshiped the next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: [anonymous]** Ok, they've all just completed a mission successfully and Waverly has commandeered a small military base for debriefing etc. Napoleon is off doing his thing and Gaby disappears off for a shower. Illya, not realising, walks in on her. The cubicles are small but cover enough so he only sees head and shoulders and from her calves down. It's lucky she's so short as otherwise he'd have seen a lot more! Because he moves silently anyway she doesn't hear him come in and he's entranced watching her. She's really enjoying her incredibly hot shower and Illya is cemented to his spot watching her lather up until he sees her use a razor...his! Feel free to go as smutty as you like!

THE CAUCASUS, 19 APRIL 1964

Illya steps out from behind the cubicle into a humid fog that had not been there when he started his shower at a reasonable temperature less than five minutes prior. The massive klonka in the corner roars with exertion, as if the entire regiment had returned to hit the showers at once. The row of cubicles along the wall on this side remain empty. The fog is rolling in from a narrow gap separating the two shower blocks.

The thin towel Illya wraps around his waist chafes his skin. What makes him frown is that he notices. He is becoming as soft as the monogrammed linens of the endless luxury hotels their missions take them to more often than not. Three days picking their way through border villages avoiding live mines has been a much-needed deviation. There are many aspects of his life with UNCLE Illya would be better off not becoming used to.

And some aspects he never will get used to — like Solo’s thieving fingers. The scent of his own soap sends Illya through to the other block of showers. Sure enough, the leather toiletry case he thought lost to the river is perched on a squat wooden stool next to the source of the haze.

The insult he has prepared catches in his throat when brunette hair arcs above the low dividing wall.

Small chin, long neck, slender shoulders. Shapely calves and delicate ankles. Concrete in between. Gaby closes her eyes against the spray of water before bending behind the dividing wall.

Illya has neither seen nor been seen. He is free to leave. Must leave.

Gaby reappears with a near-empty, lableless bottle of what he guesses is homemade vodka pressed to her lips. She drinks lavishly, shuddering at the taste and chuckling when alcohol spills from her lips to join the streams of water flowing down her neck. Vodka finished, she hums a line of a song into the bottle before placing it on the narrow wall.

Three grueling days with no hot water, no drink, no music. But she never complained about the mission. Only sniped and snarled at his own clipped tone and gruff demeanor.

Gaby gathers her hair in a pile atop her head. Suds drip from her temple down her cheek, from her elbow to the hollow of her armpit and out of sight to pool at her feet.

He is cemented to the floor, weighed down by every moment he has made himself look away. In this moment, Illya does not feel like the respectful man his mother raised. Nor the honorable soldier he learned to idealize from books. He is far from the professional agent he assured Waverly he is and will be. For Gaby’s sake, Waverly said. For his own sake, Illya agreed.

Gaby turns, dipping behind the wall. One foot lifts to settle on the stool. Two hands extend from behind the wall to spread a white lather onto golden skin from the tip of her toes to mid-thigh. She reaches inside his toiletry case and draws out his straight razor. A flick of her wrist and the blade opens.

He will leave. Just as soon as he can remember how to work his lungs.

Like everything she does, even inebriated, Gaby shaves with grace. But the stool is not well made. It almost topples when she changes legs. His razor nicks her skin.

The involuntary noise he makes is louder than hers is. The stool does topple then, the clatter almost lost in a string of colorful German profanities.

Propelled by the dread of a sliced artery, Illya is kneeling down in front of her cubicle in a heartbeat. Where he expects rivers of blood he finds only a thin smear of red.

Her foot jerks back from his hovering hand. “Christus,” she bites off, shaken. “I bolted the door.”

Eyes clamped shut, Illya replies, “There is second side.” He cringes at the absurdity of his position, the certainty of her nudity.The heat of the shower is nothing to the heat of his skin. His straight razor, by contrast, is cool where Gaby sets it under his chin.

Voice arch and not a bit slurred — she must have shared most of the bottle with Solo — she remarks, “Surely the UNCLE Code of Conduct prohibits one agent from sneaking into another agent’s shower.” She nudges his chin up. “I think there might even be laws against it.”

Shame doubles the heat churning under his skin. “I came for case,” he replies, forming his words carefully to avoid pressing his adam’s apple into the blade. “I thought Cowboy was only thief in UNCLE. I make mistake.”

Gaby tsks. “Poor excuse. The Code prohibits all manner of naked confrontations,” she mocks.

“I’ll go.” He means it this time. He’s fighting to keep his eyes closed. If she touches him, he’ll be lost.

She places her foot in his lap, millimeters from where he is constrained against the thin, rough towel.

Illya’s eyes fly open. Standing over him now, Gaby is everything he has been trying to forget from their interlude as lovers. His gaze roves over her body, small and firm and perfect. Her expression is arresting, demanding. And — dropping to the outline of his cock — triumphant. Remembering the below-the-belt insult she threw at him an hour ago, he almost preens.

Gaby lets his straight razor fall to dangle from two fingers. “While you’re down there.” Her voice, husky with intent, washes the arrogance right out of him.

For two weeks he has been strong.

Her smirk falters and all at once her nudity is vulnerability, an attribute he rarely sees. For all his training, Illya cannot pretend to even want to be unaffected.

He takes the razor by the blade. Holds his hand out for the bar soap. Their fingers don’t brush when she places it in his cupped palm. The soap glides down her skin, forming a lather that gathers on the blade as he makes careful upward strokes.

When he has finished shaving her, he sets aside his soap and razor to inspect her leg. There is a bruise, a small scrape just below the cap of her knee. Something of the panic he felt when she slipped in the torrential rain and rolled down the hill toward the minefield compels him to press his lips there.

Gaby sighs. Her palms settle on the bristles on his cheeks, lifting his face to meet her scrutiny. She sighs again. “Dummkopf.”

Lost, Illya’s arms move of their own accord. His fingers grip and knead her thighs.

He is an idiot. Not for trying to lengthen the meager time he has left with UNCLE by means of good behavior. Not for trying to lessen a future blow. Illya is an idiot for thinking he would be strong enough to deny Gaby anything she wants. Even if, impossibly, what she wants his him.

Walking her forward, he stops the rivulets of water dripping from her lower belly with the press of his mouth. He breathes in the scent of his soap mixed with her need. She shivers against him despite the heat.

Gaby has made an idiot of him from the start. She’ll make a liar of him, too.

She leans down, her elbows biting into his shoulders and her lips brushing his ear. He can barely make out her words over the spray of water and the furnace roar: “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” It’s a softer stance from her, one that acknowledges at last something of the consequences he might face.

Illya seals the agreement with a kiss he has been holding back for two long weeks. The sharpness of the vodka behind her teeth, of her nails sinking into his back meet the need surging in him.

He tugs her hips closer and lifts her knee over his shoulder. Her urging grip shifts to his back and arms. As he mouths his way up her inner thigh, she tilts toward the showerhead. The line of her body directs the water to cascade over his crown and shoulders. Illya licks past it, finding the wetness that is hers alone.

The concrete surrounding them echoes with Gaby’s low moans. A fine tremor begins to rack her legs. He moves them so her back is to the wall and both her thighs are pressed against his ears.

She finishes with his wet hair tangled in her fist, his name a sharp cry in the back of her throat.

Her legs slip from his shoulders, and she steadies herself into a crouch. She rubs the ache from his neck while he shifts his weight to ease the ache in his knees. The ache in his cock only intensifies when she presses forward to stroke her tongue inside his mouth. She can be tasting nothing but herself. He groans. Her hum of satisfaction goes straight through him.

Standing, she peers down at him and traces his lips with her thumb. “Jilted one minute, worshiped the next.” Her chuckle is exasperated. “What am I to do with you?”

“Jilted,” he scoffs, offended for them both. “I would never — ”

“Oh, so now you want to have this conversation?” Gaby lifts the sopping towel from his lap and drops it in a heavy pile next to the overturned stool.

Illya shakes his head. Her thumb returns to trace his features. He watches for the moment her gaze dips low, the weight of her eyes enough to make him throb. She leans over to stroke him, and he knows he is in danger of not lasting long.

Gaby helps him to his feet and directs him under the showerhead. The water has cooled to warm instead of scalding. They drink each other in.

With one hand, Gaby works his cock and with the other she glides her fingernails over the patch of hair on his chest down to the lines of his hips. She pulls a noise from him that makes her smirk up through the spray of water. He is ready to spill in her hand.

Ever cruel and kind in equal measure, she moves away to lean against the cubicle. That smirk stays fixed on him as she turns. Her fingers curl over the dividing wall. Her hips cant high in invitation.

Illya shuts his eyes against the pulse that has spread to his stomach. When he can, he steps forward to run his hands along the curve of her spine and up her ribs to cup her breasts. She wiggles her ass, smirk lost to impatience. He would like to tease out that impatience — will do exactly that, the next time they find themselves on a feather mattress with room service and other decadences Illya will forever associate with Gaby. For now, he is grateful to give in.

He eases the head of his cock into her, pausing to readjust himself to her tight, slick heat. She circles her hips, and his hands move to grip her there. “Gaby…” He means to slow her down, stop if he has to, make her come a second time. She arches back to claim his full length.

Adopting the long, hard strokes her deep moans demand, Illya loses himself in the rhythm she sets until he’s throbbing with the need to sink into her. She tightens around him and his own acute release of pressure drives him forward.

Illya catches himself on the wall, knocking over the vodka bottle in his pursuit of her fingers. They grip hands.

After he feels he has kissed his gratitude into her back sufficiently, he sinks them into the corner opposite the shattered glass to rest their shaking legs. Illya drops his face into the crook of her neck and Gaby lays her head against his.

They are tangled again, awake and holding fast.

But the rising sun is beginning to filter through the windows. With the light comes worry. The soldiers will be returning soon from assessing the minefield he and Solo and Gaby have mapped for them. The UNCLE secondary unit will be finishing up their investigation. Gaby may have bolted the door on this side of the showers, but Illya didn’t bother with the other side.

“We were lucky not to be caught,” Illya grumbles, nose dipped into her collarbone. “For once.”

“I was caught,” Gaby corrects. “Lucky it was you.”

He kisses the swell of her breast. “I am lucky one. You should have thrown me out. Had me disciplined.”

“There’s still time for that later.” She nibbles his throat then pushes against him to get to her feet. “But we won’t test our luck.” She says it like a compromise. He has learned that, for her, any bit of ground given is.

His response is more an acquiescence: “We will need it.” It is not her fault that Gaby believes she can use Waverly’s sincere fondness to mold UNCLE into what she wants it to be. Waverly has never let on to her that he is building an edifice from interchangeable materials.

They dress in clean uniforms for lack of better options. She pins her hair back into the cap for the fun of it while he shaves his face. Gaby admires her look in the mirror. He admires the subtle but undoubtedly feminine curve of her backside.

“The General was blind,” he tells her.

Illya has been nursing a worry that she will not want to touch him in the uniform of a Soviet soldier, but Gaby drags him down to claim one more wet, heated kiss before they relinquish each other to duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ding dong, the dots are dead! U.N.C.L.E. may be more period-accurate, but it was driving me nuts. 
> 
> Translation: Klonka is the Russian-Azeri term for a big-ass water heater that will singe your eyebrows off if you light it like a dummkopf. As you probably figured, that means idiot.
> 
> I'm looking to improve my smut-writing game, so if anyone has any concrit feel free to comment (I think I do a bit much "she did that," "he did this," but I'm not sure how to fix that). My [askbox](http://blueincandescence.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr is always open, too.


	4. a little decorum, please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: [spaacepilots]** Could you do one where illya gets into a fight with a group of men because they are looking at and hitting on gaby?  
>  **Warnings:** The prompted fight is precipitated by a misunderstanding stemming from the very real, very awful military tradition of young boys being targeted for sexual abuse by older soldiers. Nothing descriptive at all, but it is a plot point.

THE CAUCASUS, 19 APRIL 1964

When Gaby takes her seat for the debriefing at exactly 0600 hours, Waverly nods with approval at her masculine appearance — “No need to cause a riot.” Five minutes later, Solo takes the chair she left between herself and Illya, who had parted from her to arrive his habitual ten minutes early. By now the parts they have to play are well-rehearsed. Waverly launches into his droll recount of the mission’s many “wonderments,” with Solo inserting supporting details. Gaby then mends them into something more believable to bridge the gap between Illya’s derisive counterclaims.

The UNCLE Secondary Unit uncovered the same sort of advanced technology she and the boys found in Belgrade and before that in Minsk. The SU has packed up the moveable hardware and is working on decrypting what else they can.

“We’re this much closer to verifying a full-blown conspiracy and getting the international support we need to stop it. Well done, chaps.” Waverly comes to stand behind her chair. He pats the headrest. “And well done, Agent Teller, for your quick and effective actions. Though it would seem there are…” He looks between Gaby and Illya. “Wrinkles that need ironing when it comes to the chain of command, hm?”

Gaby musters up some acid to shoot Illya’s way. He purses his lips and turns so she is out of his peripheral. They all have their roles to play. Though the heat creeping up his neck is not likely only part of the act. Good. Let him sweat it out over whether she means it.

Their next mission is Brussels. They’re to fly out from Tbilisi tomorrow morning and spend a week or so with their heads down, settling into their respective covers, before approaching the target. Solo, agent-in-command on the other side of the Curtain, gets first crack at the intel.

“Back to basics, I think,” he says after a quick skim. “Art dealer. Honeymooning couple.” Solo grins. Illya shifts. Gaby harrumphs. Waverly pinches his nose under his glasses. Whether he believes that she and Illya are truly on the outs or not doesn’t matter, Gaby thinks. The commitment to pretense is what he needs from them. It’s tedious, but now that Illya has come to his senses she'll get on with it. She’s done worse things to pry a little happiness for herself from this world.

When the Azerbaijani troops return to populate the base, Waverly ushers General Humbetov into a private meeting. Solo goes off in search of breakfast, but Gaby insists on sleep. The barracks are half-filled with soldiers. Illya tries to lead her out by the shoulders but Gaby shrugs him off. She’s not sleeping on something makeshift when there is a perfectly serviceable bunk in front of her. Besides, she likes the anonymity the uniform gives her. Illya with his height and his officer’s garb and his dark scowl and his hovering stands out far more than she does. Gaby takes an empty top bunk and Illya sets himself up down below. He doesn’t like to admit it, but even the Red Peril’s stamina has limits.

Hours later, Illya is still there when she climbs down from the bunk. She refrains from gazing too long at his exhaustion-softened face and instead goes to find the mess hall to sate her grumbling stomach. Passing groups of soldiers loitering in the corridors, Gaby ducks her chin and puts on a swagger that would do John Wayne proud. Or at least she thinks so until the snickers start up. Followed by sucking noises. She catches a word she recognizes from their Turkish adventures as meaning dark-complected, but the other two words they keep using are Russian and unfamiliar. One soldier even tries to grab at her, making her skitter back and the line of men erupt into laughter. So much for anonymity. Gaby’s hand goes to her cap. The pins must have come undone, or maybe she’s just not as convincing a boy with her face washed.

Whatever it is, it’s a relief to run into Solo. He greets her with an enthusiastic slap across the back. “There you are, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal. Just in time for dinner.” He steers her into the mess hall. “I’ve had some input in tonight’s cuisine. You’ll thank me.”

“I think my cover’s been blown,” she mutters as they pick through to the front of the line. It’s far from the first time she’s uttered that sentence to him. “They were — ” The leering has not stopped for being at Solo’s side. “Hissing at me.”

“You know, I’ve learned a lot about our Azeri comrades today,” Solo says. He exchanges nods and smiles with each of the line cooks. “They’re a gossipy bunch. Quite friendly, even though they’ve all had to take freezing cold showers today. I could not dissuade them from blaming my foreign compatriots — there was the matter of the broken vodka bottle and the discarded uniforms.”

Of course they’d be stationed with a battalion full of amateur detectives. Gaby accepts her borscht, which does smell heavenly, and follows Solo to a table. Knowing where this conversation could be going and determined to head it off, she scoffs, “A long shower was enough to tip them off that I’m a woman?”

Solo takes his seat and his time folding a napkin over his lap. “Ah,” he says delicately. “What exactly were they hissing?”

“Something in Russian; I couldn’t tell you.” But then Solo volunteers some familiar syllables, and she points her spoon at him. “Yes, that.”

Swallowing a hearty bite, Solo wipes his grin delicately. “Your cover is intact, Gaby. That phrase refers to a military tradition once venerated in Ancient Rome. Some brothers in arms develop closer relationships than others, you understand.”

“Oh.” She recalls his comment from earlier, about chaos in the barracks, and rolls her eyes. “Well, I suppose we can put it on the books that, if called upon, I can pass for a young man.” As infectious as Solo’s grin is, the hissing still bothers her. “But what was that other word they were using?” She tries to sound it out. Stops when she sees that Solo’s jaw is working. His reaction tells her it means something entirely different. “It’s quite nasty, isn’t it?” she ventures. “The other word.” The implications. Less consensual, if she were to hazard a guess.

“Quite,” Solo agrees, clipped. No wonder Illya had that scowl on his face. He made a name for himself holding his fellow soldiers accountable, Solo had said, and Gaby wonders if this weren’t one aspect of the soldier’s life he objected to. Her concern turns to the soldier she’d stolen the uniform from, who had been part of the insurgency but also so young.

They’re finished with dinner and headed to check on the production of the microfilm they are to take with them to Brussels when, from around the corner, she hears the slur again. A soldier asks what must be Illya if he’s lost his — well, whatever that word means. Another soldier asks for a turn with the beautiful boy.

The sound of a nose breaking and attendant shouts send Solo and Gaby racing forward. Illya is engaging six soldiers. Seven, if she counts the one writhing on the ground in agony. Another joins him a minute after Solo throws his fists into the fight. Gaby spots the soldier who grabbed at her earlier and takes the opportunity to hurl herself onto his back. She constricts his windpipe in the crook of her elbow. Illya lets out a roar — he’s being held back from her by two soldiers putting their full weight into gripping his wrists. The soldier she is choking wrenches out of her hold to throw her off his back. Illya is on him before he can gasp in a full breath.

Gaby hits the floor hard and slides to a stop in front of a pair of meticulously shined black boots. Hair falling in her eyes, she looks up to see General Humbetov’s mortified face go splotchy with rage.

Waverly appears in her line of sight to help her up, pulling her to the side. “At least it is a contained riot,” is his mild rebuke.

The General yells a command. His troops freeze mid-motion, except for the two who go down when Illya and Solo each get in one more good swing. When he’s finished with his tirade, the General wheels on Waverly for an explanation.

Waverly looks at Gaby, who is surveying the beaten soldiers with satisfaction, then at Illya, who is coming down from his rage, and sighs. They’re not fooling him, not one bit. Their only hope is that his good graces stay as generous as they are in this moment. Waverly launches into diplomacy mode, giving them ample time to right themselves and ready their insincere apologies. Gaby, a woman once more, isn’t asked to provide one. Nor is she looked at directly, except by Illya, who has somehow emerged unscathed. She clasps her hands at her front, their wordless signal for calm. His fists, smeared with blood that is not his own, flex and steady.

Gaby, Solo, and Illya are allowed to make a dignified — if hasty — exit from the base in possession of the microfilm, food from Solo’s friends in the kitchen, and a multipurpose transport truck that only dies once on their way up the mountain. It doesn’t take much to convince their agent-in-command to make camp near the village they stayed in two nights ago instead of driving straight to the Georgian border and sleeping in the airport hanger.

Out of the truck, Illya tries to ascertain if she really is injured. Solo is the only one who came out worse for the wear, but she can well imagine the woman who would find that his split lip adds to his appeal. She hopes said woman offers them breakfast again tomorrow morning.

Gaby looks at her two protectors with fond bemusement. “We could have certainly done without the dramatics,” she says, doing her best Waverly impression. “But I do appreciate you so vigorously defending my honor.” Passing Illya, she murmurs, “Especially you,” and uses the word she’s learned to indicate the battle-forged, Romanesque feeling between them. Illya’s eyes go wide like she wanted and then narrow quickly at Solo, her consistent tutor when it comes to phrases that will make Illya blush.

They sit together on the hitch of the truck sharing one pair of binoculars between the three of them. The troops are employing what Illya explains is a British mine-clearing line charge technique to make the area safe again. Solo translates what Gaby can see for herself: they’re blowing everything sky high. To illustrate his explanation of the line that is projected into the field, Illya reaches around her to focus the binoculars. He blurs the line of professionality once more to brush her fingers as he sits back. Gaby hands the binoculars off to Solo, who contents himself with a brow raise over her head. She can only conclude that Illya’s comparative effusiveness and Solo’s correlative restraint is the product of some male bonding pact. The timing is ripe for one. For those two, gun battles and fistfights are trust-building exercises.

At nightfall, Solo takes the winding road down to the village to comfort his shepherdess. While Illya builds a bed in the back of the truck, Gaby stokes the fire.

The storm clouds have finally rolled to the south, leaving the two of them underneath a bright and infinite starscape. Illya sits beside her, pressing thigh to thigh and taking her into his arms with the excuse that she must be cold. Gaby gives up her view to dip her face into his collar. She is not cold but knows the world is. Only in such stark isolation, only between missions, can this ease exist between them. She fidgets with the buttons on his uniform jacket. He would listen to her melancholy thoughts if she shared them, but all he would hear would be justification for this past two weeks of idiocy. She has to project certainty for them both. Gaby is used to fighting for what she wants and, since Illya isn’t, that is one battle she can’t count on him fighting for her.

She loosens his tie. His arm shifts along her back to stroke encouragement through the thick fabric of the fatigues she wears. The buttons that hide his throat from her go next, and she presses a kiss to the hollow there. Her mouth takes the same path his did when they sat together on the floor of the shower. Up the column of his throat, underneath his chin, at the joint of his earlobe, the apple of his cheek. Illya is malleable underneath her fingertips, turning this way and that in anticipation. He remembers, too. Their lips brush, and they linger there. Teasing each other with feather-light kisses belied by the tightening grips they have on each other. A sharp intake of breath and Illya breaks, sealing his mouth on hers to return the favor.

Illya growls into their kiss and it’s a moment before Gaby recognizes it as a word. “Come,” he says, and she’s on her feet before she’s yet opened her eyes. Illya, leaning close, has her by the elbows. “To bed.”

An appreciative smirk forms on her face as she takes in his mussed uniform. “Was that an order, Komandir?”

Looking for a moment like he’d rather roll his eyes, he plays her game anyway. Shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back, he grits out, “Vy slyshali menya, soldat.”

Her smirk gets wider. She heard him all right. All the way down to her curling toes. Making room between them, Gaby models her fatigues like high fashion. “Do you want to know how I got the first uniform?”

A smile tugs at the lips she intends to have on her again soon. “Probably not.”

Fingers coming together in the shape of a gun, she squints one eye and takes aim at Illya’s middle. “Razden'!” she orders, low and harsh, and mimics where she shot at the soldier’s feet. “The poor boy was terrified.”

“You are fearsome creature,” Illya agrees, firelit blue eyes gone warm with humor and pride.

Aim on him again, she holds both syllables deep in her throat: “Razden'.”

“This is most unorthodox.” His fingers are moving faster than his languid words. “I am your superior officer.”

Brow quirked in challenge, Gaby shrugs out of her uniform jacket. She shivers for the light chill, for the weight of Illya’s gaze on her bare breasts. She takes the jacket he’s just shouldered out of and settles his heat around herself. Gaby doesn’t bother doing up the buttons, but she does don the hat. The effect is precisely what she intended, going off of Illya’s slackened mouth. Clearing her throat, she rumbles, “Ya dal vam prikaz, soldat.”

Illya continues with his orders. He hands off his shirt to her, ever so careful with the things that come into his possession.

Gaby circles him, enjoying the way the contours of his chest and back seem to ripple in the light. “You are in fine form,” she tells him, adopting his accent. “True asset — ” She trails a hand over his backside. “To Red Army.” When he reaches for her, she moves away and the look that earns is pure frustration. “A little decorum, please. Continue.”

The belt follows, then the boots, socks, and pants. Only Illya could look so dignified wearing nothing but his skivvies. He’s standing at attention in more ways than one. Gaby sends off a downward salute.

Impatience etched in the naked want on his face, Illya says her name as a warning.

“I’ve never known you to have such difficulty following an order,” she returns. “You are not undressed.”

He takes his time removing his thin, white shorts, then steps toward her.

“I never gave you permission...” The intent on his face makes her forget her words, stumble a little as he backs her toward the truck. The hat slides off. He almost treads on it. “Stoy!” she tries, but he reaches out to set her on top of the hitch. Her boots are off in a moment’s work, socks and pants, too, her clothing and his tossed aside. She loses the jacket even though it wasn’t a hindrance to his pursuit of her breasts.

“No more orders,” he grouses against her chest, one hand sliding between their bodies. “I am sick to death of orders.”

Gaby could crow. Her approval becomes a mewl when he slips a finger inside of her. Hips circling, she pulls him over to hiss a command into his ear. In an instant, she is flat on her back and Illya is working her harder. Her laughter is colored by how good it feels to be obeyed.

“I would be fool to ignore good suggestion,” he defends himself.

She joins him in his rejection of orders. They have each other as they please. Her laughs and his huffs, their echoes of each other’s moans carry in the open air. Spread out naked and shivering under the stars, they take to the other as an explorer would. It’s a wonder that either of them can recognize freedom when they feel it. It is a miracle that they can give it to each other even in this ephemeral way. A battle awaits them, a war. But that is then and this is now. Now is for proving to each other that they are worth the fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fin._ Thank you so much for reading and kudos-ing and commenting. I love gushing over these two with you all!
> 
> For anyone who is wondering about my Olympics AU, I'm still working on it! It's just taking an angsty turn, and I'm honestly baffled by it. Like, why? Just touch mouths!


End file.
